


'Cause You Control the Floodgates

by parcequelle



Category: The Closer
Genre: Community: femslashex, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-26 12:17:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5004514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parcequelle/pseuds/parcequelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's wearing a smile like she has a secret, and Brenda swallows, heart in her throat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Cause You Control the Floodgates

**Author's Note:**

  * For [newgame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/newgame/gifts).



> Written for Femslash Exchange 2015 - I enjoyed writing this a lot, and I really hope you enjoy it too, newgame! Thanks for requesting such a great pairing! :) (Title from 'Skies On Fire' by Paper Aeroplanes.)

Plan A isn't working. It's a good plan in theory (Stay Far Away from Each Other), but the practical execution has proven more problematic than either of them initially suspected. Brenda sits at the desk in her office and dials the FID extension she refuses on principle to program into her speed dial, tapping her fingers on an unopened pack of Twizzlers, impatient, as she waits for her target to pick up.

Then, finally, “Raydor, FID.”

“Cap'n Raydor,” Brenda says, clipped. “Have you heard?”

“And a very good morning to you too, Chief Johnson.”

Brenda can practically feel the sarcasm curling up through the phone cord and into her ears, and she allows herself an exaggerated eye-roll, glad that Sharon can't see her. “Good mornin'. Now would you answer my question? Please,” she adds, just in case. Just to make it as clear as she possibly can that she _could_ have made that a direct order.

“Thank you,” Sharon says. “And yes, I did hear.”

“So? What are we gonna do about it?”

“I have already taken the liberty of speaking to Chief Pope about our situation, and--”

“You _what_?” Her voice is loud enough that Tao and Sanchez, sitting outside in the bullpen, turn and cast her interested looks through the glass. She makes a face, reaches over to tug down the blinds; she knows rationally that there's no chance they can see her, but she still turns away from the window to hiss, “Tell me you aren't serious!” into the receiver.

Sharon sighs. “I'm not referring to... the other situation.” Brenda can just picture her there, sitting primly, lips pursed. “I merely informed him that I believed that, in the interest of maintaining peace between our departments, it may be prudent for you to send Sergeant Gabriel down here in your place.”

“And? What'd his Holiness say to that?”

“Chief,” Sharon chastises, but she sounds like she's biting down on a smile. “He said, perhaps predictably, that if we are unable to work civilly in a professional capacity then he ought to reconsider our fitness for leadership of our respective divisions.”

“He did _not_.”

Sharon snorts. “I know you know I didn't make that up.”

“No, I know,” Brenda sighs. She can no longer resist opening the pack of Twizzlers and popping one into her mouth, sucking on it as she leans back in her chair. She spins around, once, takes in the drab lack of décor in her office, the long-dead orchid that was a gift from Fritz before he knew her well enough to know that that idea was doomed to fail, a sad but perfect representation of their entire relationship, its downfall and eventual ruin. She spins another 90 degrees, looks away from it. “We know we can't get out of workin' together, then, at least for the next few weeks,” she says to Sharon around a mouthful of sugar-loaded artificial goodness. “I'd say this calls for some adjustment to the plan.”

“Yes, it does.” A rustle, then Brenda hears Sharon say, “Just put it on top of my briefcase, Olivia, thanks. And get out of here, won't you? It's after seven. You too.” A pause, then, “You still there, Chief?”

“I am,” Brenda says. She's used the opportunity to down most of the Twizzler, and now she tosses the rest back onto her desk, grimacing when it lands stickily on her keyboard. “Can I really just have heard what I think I heard, Captain? Were you just bein' voluntarily nice to someone on your staff?”

Sharon sniffs, unimpressed. “I am always nice to the members of my staff, Chief Johnson. You just happen to bring out the worst in me.”

“You do say the sweetest things.”

“Oh, honey, you're not the only one who has that ability,” Sharon drawls, and Brenda tries not to squirm at the way the endearment, disingenuous though it is, rolls off her tongue. “Pope,” Sharon says. “Taylor. McGovern in Vice. Alvarez.”

Brenda frowns. “Who's Alvarez?”

“New CIA liaison, the redhead. Must be something about intelligence agents that makes them inherently untrustworthy.”

“Ha ha,” Brenda says. There's silence, not necessarily the bad kind, and Brenda grits her teeth against the realisation that the more they do this, bicker and chat and kill time through the phone lines at work, the more she grows used to – even _fond_ of – this awful woman's company. “I can't believe I'm sayin' this, but my plan doesn't seem to have worked out too well.”

“To be fair, it wasn't really a viable plan,” Sharon says, generously, as though that patronising, forgiving tone isn't going to make Brenda's hackles rise worse than if she'd just insulted her directly.

“You got any better ideas, Captain?”

“Hmm,” Sharon says. “I'll think of something.”

“I can't wait.”

Sharon hangs up without saying goodbye, yet another pet hate to add to the increasing list of reasons Sharon Raydor is the thorn in Brenda's side, ever-sharper.

***

Frustrated, Brenda tosses her pen down onto the desk, savours the satisfaction of the clatter. “You know what I think?” 

Sharon writes a couple of words (her penmanship obnoxiously legible), signs a form, signs another form, and then finally looks up. The expression on her face is bored, distracted. “Hmm?”

“I think Pope is doin' this deliberately. Tryin' to torture us both.”

Sharon makes a face, shakes her head, turns another page to resume reading. “I'm so glad your sense of self-importance is healthy enough that you believe the Chief of the LAPD has nothing better to do than make your life miserable.”

Brenda crosses her arms over her chest, says sulkily, “I did say _us both_.”

Sharon glances up at that, gives her a look that's bordering on amused. “You don't think that if he wanted to torture you he wouldn't have come up with something better than this?”

“Than havin' to sit locked all day in a room with you doin' paperwork? Really?”

“You have a point. I suppose for you this really is torture.”

She turns back to her work and Brenda stares at her, eyes widening as a horrible suspicion draws over her consciousness like the dark clouds that have been hanging over their heads, literally, for the last two days. “Wait a minute,” Brenda says, slowly, carefully. “You mean to say that you're _enjoyin'_ this?”

“I didn't say that,” Sharon says mildly. She looks up. “May I have my highlighter back, please?”

Brenda half-passes it, half-tosses it at her; she'd only been using it to draw pictures in the margins of her legal pad anyway, fluorescent pink kittens with fluorescent pink whiskers. Like Joel, only pink. “But you said that--”

“I _said_ ,” Sharon interrupts, “that it must be torturous for you. How you interpreted that to mean that I'm enjoying myself is quite beyond me.”

“You _are_ enjoyin' yourself!” Brenda slaps her hand down on her stack of files and leans forward. “I knew it. You're some... some kinda unnaturally well-organised, highlighter-happy, paperwork-enjoyin' alien! I bet you're one of those people who has special pairs of underwear assigned to particular days of the week!”

Sharon actually sets down her fountain pen, now, leans back in her chair with her elbow against the armrest. She's smirking, and Brenda thinks oh, damn it, opens her mouth to--

“Interesting assumption,” Sharon murmurs, head cocked. Her long, silky hair is falling into her eyes, over her glasses, but she doesn't move to shift it out of the way. Brenda itches to do so, finds herself having to clench her fists against the arm of her own chair to keep control. “Does consideration of my underwear preoccupy you a great deal, Chief Johnson?”

She's so cool, so smooth-talking, all titles and big words, but Brenda has faced down murderers and gang members and worse and she can face down this woman. This attraction isn't going to kill her, even though it feels like Sharon's eyes are branding streaks of fire into her overheated skin even as she thinks it. “Just consideration of your insufferable stickler ways, Cap'n Raydor.” She stands, abrupt, and leans across the desk in an exaggerated way to grab Sharon's mug, pauses on the way back up to smile. “I'm goin' for coffee. You want a refill?”

The way Sharon's tongue darts out to run across her lips, the way her eyes dart down to Brenda's cleavage and back up, almost too quick, is enough to have made the move worth it. “Thank you,” Sharon says. Her eyes are heated but her voice betrays nothing, and Brenda's admiration for her collectedness ratchets up a notch. “Cream and--”

“No sugar, I know.”

Sharon looks surprised that she's remembered, but not displeased.

*

They've been at it for hours when Brenda throws the last of her backlog onto the pile beside her – the one she's mentally been referring to as Read Or Otherwise Acknowledged – and stretches her arms up over her head, winces when she hears a series of cracks. “Lord,” she mutters. She stretches her neck out, too, presses her shoulder down with her right hand and massages lightly to work out the kinks.

To her surprise, Sharon chuckles, pushes her glasses up her nose and peers at her through them. “That doesn't sound healthy. Maybe you should come with me to Pilates.”

“Pi-what now?”

“Hillbilly,” Sharon mutters, not unkindly. “Pilates? Like yoga, but for people over the age of eighteen?”

Brenda snorts. “Sounds fascinatin'. Think I'd rather do somethin' good and old fashioned like watchin' paint dry.”

“Maybe it would do you good,” Sharon says, off-hand, but it's somehow less insulting than it should be. Like maybe Sharon's just saying it, just a thought, instead of making a value judgement on how Brenda lives her life. “Maybe you'd have fun.”

“Fun?” she asks. Sharon blinks at her. “Sorry,” Brenda mutters, “didn't realise that word was in your active vocabulary.”

Sharon rolls her eyes. “Ah, yes, the Ice Queen from FID who has no sense of humour, now there's one I haven't heard before. Do tell another.”

Uncomfortable, Brenda ignores that. “You exercise for fun?” she asks instead.

“Every Saturday,” Sharon says.

“Saturday,” Brenda echoes.

“Yes, at 8.”

“In the evenin'?”

Sharon gives her a withering look. Brenda ignores that one, too. “So you mean to tell me you're gonna get up, get dressed, get in your car and travel somewhere to voluntarily exercise at 8am? On a weekend?”

“Yes,” Sharon says, then frowns. “Just not tomorrow.”

“Why, tomorrow special? You can't do Pilates when Venus is ascending, or somethin'?”

Sharon rolls her eyes. “Don't be absurd. Chief,” she adds belatedly, but she doesn't look especially contrite. “Your preconceptions are entirely unfounded. But no, incidentally I am not going tomorrow because I'm picking up my daughter from the airport. She's coming home from New York for my son's birthday.”

Oh, right, Brenda thinks. She has kids. Brenda knows this, has known this ever since the woman first stormed onto her crime scene and started making demands and Brenda subsequently looked up her file, but she always forgets it, somehow. Sharon just doesn't have that motherly air about her. “Your daughter,” Brenda echoes. “You don't see her often?”

“She's very busy,” Sharon says, and she has a wistful look on her face, one that's making Brenda rethink her stance on the motherly-air thing. “She also travels a lot. It isn't often that our schedules align.”

“Nice that she makes the time to come back to see y'all, then.”

Sharon hitches up one shoulder, not quite a shrug. “Family is important.”

Damn, Brenda thinks, frowning. She really should call her mama when she gets out of here. It's been too long.

“Chief?”

“Hm?” She'd been gazing out the window, but now Brenda looks back over to meet her eyes. “Captain?”

Sharon gives her a small smile, indulgent. “Are you all right?”

“Perfectly,” Brenda says. “Just thinking about things I should be doin'.”

Sharon nods, looks back at her papers, then after a moment she pushes her chair out from the desk and stands, smoothing her hands down over the fabric of her impeccably-tailored suit trousers. “I'm going to run an errand,” she announces. “I'll be back in ten minutes.”

Brenda raises an incredulous eyebrow. “Will you now?”

Sharon nods crisply, but there's something playing on the edge of her lips as she turns, hand already on the doorknob, that gives Brenda pause. “I assume that my superior can be trusted to hold the fort in my brief absence?”

“I'm sure I'll find a way,” Brenda drawls.

It's only when Sharon's gone, closing the office door soundly behind her, that Brenda realises what she's been playing at; she picks up the phone, dials one of very few numbers she knows by heart. “Hello, Mama? It's me, Brenda Leigh. Just wanted to call to say hi.”

They've utterly failed at successful implementation of Plan B (Discuss Only Work-Related Topics [Emergencies Excepted]), but somehow, she still has to swallow her smile.

***

“Are you kiddin' me?” Brenda hisses. “ _This_ was your brilliant idea?”

Sharon whirls around to face her, fury etched into the elegant lines of her face. “This was in no way even _vaguely resemblant_ of my idea. In fact, if I do recall correctly, it was _your_ idea to take this _discussion_ somewhere out of public view.”

“And it was you who decided that the janitor's closet would be a good destination.”

“And we needn't forget it was you who slammed the door.”

Brenda glares at her. “I didn't realise there wasn't a key in the lock when I did!”

Sharon heaves a long-suffering sigh and says, “Just give me your phone, will you? I'll call someone from FID to get us out of here.”

Brenda glares harder, hands on her hips. “And why exactly someone from FID? We're closer to Major Crimes, why shouldn't I just call them?”

Sharon rolls her eyes. “You really want Flynn or Provenza to come down here and find us in the closet?” Brenda says nothing. “Exactly. My people are just more... shall we say _tactful_.”

“ _Excuse_ me, Captain Raydor, you can say all you like about me to my face but I _will not stand_ for derogatory remarks about my team, however well-disguised they may be. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, _Chief_.”

The sarcastic disrespect in her spoken rank makes Brenda bristle, but she lets it slide. A week or two back, she and Sharon had made the mistake of granting a temporary title-amnesty, and the familiarity that had resulted from Brenda seeing, hearing, feeling her given name slide through Sharon's lips had been almost more distraction than she could handle.

It's safer this way. It's better. How she ever felt the desire to grant this woman any liberties at all is, at this moment, entirely beyond her. “I'd like to remind you, Captain, that Lieutenants Flynn and Provenza are both highly successful, long-serving, decorated officers with an excellent investigative skill-set.”

“Yes,” Sharon says, “of course. They're also misogynistic jerks.”

Brenda folds her arms over her chest and shakes her head. “They are _also_ far from being the only members of my squad.” It's starting to get hot in here; the closet is tiny, is full of bleach, broken soap dispensers, spare rolls of paper towel, and Sharon is standing far too close to her. This was definitely not part of the new plan (Plan C: Avoid Close Contact and Focus On the Negatives). Brenda wipes a hand across her forehead.

“Where's your phone?” Sharon asks.

Brenda presses a hand to the pocket of her cardigan and finds nothing; with a sinking feeling she realises she must have left it on the desk, unintentionally hidden beneath the disorganised mess of her papers, when Gabriel called her out of the office. “Damn,” she says, and Sharon's eyes grow comically wide.

“No,” Sharon says, as though that will make a difference. “No. You _forgot_ it?”

“As previously stated, Captain Raydor, I did not intend for this little rendezvous to happen, let alone here, in this scenic and convenient location. Where's yours?”

“On my desk,” Sharon sighs. “I should never have bought trousers without pockets.” She looks stricken, is tapping fruitlessly at the pockets of her jacket and coming up as empty as Brenda had.

“We probably wouldn't have had a signal in here, anyway,” Brenda says, gentler now. Of course it's a pain to be trapped here together, and it certainly isn't going to make their ongoing fight against their mutual attraction any easier, but there's something about Sharon's behaviour that isn't quite--

\--and then it hits her. Brenda narrows her eyes. “Are you claustrophobic, Captain?”

“No, Chief, I just love being locked in small confined spaces with the woman I'm--” Sharon swallows that sentence just in time, looks up and snaps instead, “--always arguing with to no avail.” She isn't panicking, exactly, but she's started sorting through a box of assorted junk on one of the shelves with a little more force than necessary, and Brenda can recognise when a situation has the potential to escalate.

“Sit down,” she says. Sharon ignores her, continues to comb through the box, though what she's looking for Brenda can only guess – a spare key? A screwdriver so that she can take the hinges off the door? A hammer? “Captain Raydor,” Brenda says again, louder. “Sit _down_.” After a moment, when she shows no sign of compliance, “That's an order.”

Sharon purses her lips, shoots her an irritated look and then scans the ground, dusty and gritty and home to at least a few spiders. “How lovely.”

“So sit on that,” Brenda says. She gestures in the vague direction of a chair almost buried under a heap of dirty old rags and plastic buckets. “Or clean for yourself, Lord knows there are enough supplies in here.”

Sharon's laugh is more like a snort of disdain, but it still makes Brenda press her lips down on a smile. Leaning her weight against the wall, she doesn't bother to help as Sharon clears the stuff away and sits down, crossing one long, shapely leg over the other. She looks like she might be waiting at the dentist, not that Brenda can imagine her waiting for anything at all, ever.

“I will forever maintain that this is your doing,” Sharon says stiffly. “Why you can't just engage in a civil discussion like a rational adult instead of--”

“What? Refusin' to accept it lyin' down when you criticise my methods? Agreein' with everything you say without question?” She scoffs. “Funny, Captain; I'd somehow got the impression doormat women weren't your type.”

And just like that, it changes; the air thickens and crackles and seems to close in around them and Sharon smirks at her, a dangerous, predatory thing. “Interesting,” she murmurs, low, her voice a warm twist, “that you've deemed it necessary to give thought to such things.”

Brenda's blood is hot beneath her skin, too hot, but she is unspeakably glad for the semblance of a protective barrier formed by her thick cardigan and the two feet of space between them – anything to keep her further away from this woman and her eyes and her heat, the heat that's radiating off her like a furnace.

“I haven't,” Brenda says, with such conviction that she almost believes it herself. “Just an observation, Captain Raydor, and not an especially insightful one. You know, you ain't exactly subtle.”

Brenda wouldn't have thought it possible for someone to smirk even more, but Sharon manages it. “Oh, I can be subtle.”

The words are so laden with suggestive inflection that Brenda's traitorous stomach drops and her heart flips. “'Course you can.” She snorts out a disbelieving laugh and shakes her head. “You're demonstratin' that real well right now.”

Eyes firm on Brenda's, Sharon raises herself off the chair in one smooth movement that steals Brenda's breath; she takes a step closer and stands before her, hip cocked, eyes dancing. “Is that a challenge, Chief Johnson?”

The dangerous smile is back and Brenda retaliates by plastering on a bland one. Sharon is so close that they could touch; Brenda could reach out and grab her and spin her, push her up against the dull grey wall of this closet and kiss her and meet no resistance, and she has to squeeze her hands at her sides to keep from doing just that. “No, it isn't,” Brenda says. She forces herself to take a step back. “Now, Captain, unless you have a particular desire to remain here all day, I suggest you help me out with removing this window.” She gestures to it, a small, narrow rectangle set high up on the back wall; it's almost obscured behind a large wire rack stocked with cleaning supplies. She'd almost missed it, so focused was she on arguing with Sharon. “I think that's our best chance of getting out, or at least of calling down to ground level for help.”

“Yes, of course,” Sharon says briskly, and she sets about moving things off the rack so that they can shift the whole thing away from the rusty window latch. As always when they put their heads together and work to a purpose, they are highly efficient; they get it open, and it's only another ten minutes before a uniform passes below and hears their call, sends for someone with a key.

They stand on opposite walls while they wait, staring each other down, Brenda trying her best not to think about Sharon's lips, how she tastes, how she feels, how she--

Business as usual.

***

9:35pm, there are three sharp raps on her door, and Brenda has started to say, “Hello, Captain Raydor,” before the door is completely open – that's how certain she is that she knows who's there. She enters Brenda's field of vision dressed in jeans and a soft knit sweater, hair loose, make-up faded, and despite her best intentions, Brenda softens and amends it to, “Sharon.”

“Hello,” Sharon says, stiff-backed and straight, and then, “Brenda. I think we need to have a little talk.”

“Right.” Brenda tries not to sigh too obviously as she opens the door wider to admit her. “Won't you come in?”

This is the first time she's ever been here, and Sharon takes in the mismatched furniture, the still unpainted walls of Brenda's no-longer-quite-new apartment with unabashed interest. She doesn't move beyond the living room, though, and Brenda calls out, “Come on through, won't you?” when it becomes apparent that without invitation, she won't.

Brenda's been sitting on the sofa, uncorked wine bottle less than six inches away, and she pulls an extra glass out of the nearby cabinet without asking first. Hands Sharon a glass of too-cheap Merlot, the only bottle she had left because she forgot to go shopping again, and gestures for her guest to sit down. Sharon looks undecided for a moment before she does, sinking back into the sofa cushions and crossing, recrossing her legs, her long, elegant fingers twirling around the stem of the wine glass. Brenda, returned to safety in the armchair across from her, can't quite bring herself to draw her eyes away.

“So,” Sharon says, one long, deliberate syllable. “Today.”

Brenda takes an overly large sip of wine, savours the tang of it on her tongue before she swallows.

Today. When she and Sharon had run into each other in the parking garage and then had to take the stairs because the elevators were broken and Brenda had slipped, stumbled into Sharon's arms. When they'd stood there, fingers clutching, breathing heavy, lidded eyes on each other's mouths for Lord knows how long, torturing themselves. When she'd actually reached out to kiss Sharon, right there, her hand raised to brush at her hair; when Sharon had reached out to kiss her, too, the tension electric, before Detective Mendoza had burst through the ground floor door at a run, dressed in jogging clothes and a smile, and the moment was broken.

“Today,” agrees Brenda.

“And?” Sharon demands. “What are we going to do about it?”

Brenda laughs without humour. “Do, Sharon? What is there to do? You and I have exhausted three ridiculous plans in the last two months tryin' to _do_ somethin' about it, and where's that got us besides endlessly frustrated and trapped in a closet?”

Sharon blanches. “I am going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that that was not intended as a joke about sexual uncertainty.”

Brenda nearly spits out her mouthful of wine. “Lord, Sharon!”

She's drunk more than half her glass already, too, and wordlessly extends it for a top-up. “Well, that's at least mildly encouraging,” Sharon mutters. “But honestly, Brenda, I don't think you are appreciating the seriousness of--”

“For heaven's sake, Sharon, would you can it with that!” Brenda snaps. “If you really don't think that I understand the seriousness of this situation then you sure haven't been payin' much attention.” She slams her glass onto the coffee table beside her and doesn't even flinch when some of it sloshes over the edge, onto the wood. “You really think I don't get it? This holdin' off is drivin' me nuts. I can't stop thinkin' about you, all right? I only catch about 20% of what you're sayin' in our meetings because I'm thinkin' about how great your legs look in your skirt. I can't concentrate when you're there and I can't concentrate when you're not there because I'm thinkin' about what happened when you were there, and then you--”

“What?” Sharon asks, her voice deadly soft. She sets her own glass down with much more care than Brenda had and turns to her, eyes burning. “What, Brenda?”

“You look at me like maybe you got the same problem,” Brenda says. “And we have these stupid plans to keep it at bay and they don't change anythin', if fact they maybe just make things worse, and I – Sharon, I got some self-control when I need it, but I don't know how much longer I can do this.” And it's out there, all the words in a rush and she's said it, it's done, she's admitted too much. She closes her eyes, ever the coward, braces herself for the sound of the closing door, but nothing comes; she keeps on breathing, the world keeps turning, and she opens her eyes.

Sharon stands up and walks around the side of the coffee table to take Brenda's hand, pull her up. Oh, Lord, she's going to let her down gently, isn't she? She's going to let her down gently and it's going to be humiliating and Brenda's going to regret it for the rest of her life. But then Sharon isn't leaving, isn't looking at her with pity; she's standing close to her, closer than ever, and her eyes keep travelling down to Brenda's mouth as though she isn't even aware that they're doing it. She's wearing a smile like she has a secret, and Brenda swallows, heart in her throat. “Brenda,” Sharon says, slowly. “I want to make one thing perfectly clear.”

Brenda licks her lips, can't help it; watches with a deep, hot thrill as Sharon's darkening eyes track the motion. “And what's that?”

“I still believe in the potential success of Plan D.”

Sharon isn't even touching her and her body is already tingling; Brenda's having trouble thinking, breathing, and, “Plan D? What's Plan D?”

Now Sharon grins, a blinding flash, an expression Brenda has seldom seen and certainly never like this. “Get It Out of Our Systems.”

***

“I'm so sorry to tell you this, Sharon, but I – I don't think that Plan D is – is workin' – oh, my--” Brenda gives up the senseless fight, arches her neck back in surrender to the warm, wet, insistent pressure of Sharon's talented mouth. Sharon kisses a streak up her neck, nips beneath her jawline and Brenda gasps, throws out a hand to tangle desperate, searching fingers in Sharon's hair. Sharon kisses up and up, sucks an earlobe into her mouth and bites, just the right side of painful, sending shots of arousal down through Brenda's body and straight to her core, and then she pulls back.

“Hmm?” Sharon asks, too coy, her dilated pupils all teasing and lust. “Did you say something?”

Sharon's guard is down as she mocks her, and Brenda uses the opportunity to spin them around, back Sharon against the lip of the desk where she had, moments earlier, had Brenda pinned. Brenda kisses her, once, too soft, but as soon as Sharon's mouth opens under hers to grant her entry she draws away, smirks. “Nothin' important,” she murmurs, setting to work removing the impediments of Sharon's suit jacket, untucking shirt from skirt so she can get her hands on warm skin, graze her nails along Sharon's hipbone; get her hands where Sharon wants them, where Brenda wants them just as badly. “Just somethin' about how Plan D was a bit of a failure. I thought the idea was to do it once, get it over with – kill the urge, not get us _addicted_.”

Brenda is dipping her tongue into the hollow of Sharon's navel when Sharon gasps, “Yes, it seems it was. What should – God, Brenda--” and she rakes at Brenda's back with her fingernails, unexpected and sharp and _good_ , “--what are we going to do about it?”

Brenda laughs aloud, palms Sharon's ass through her skirt just to hear the way it makes her breath hitch, and says, “I think we're gonna do what we shoulda done from the very beginning.”

Sharon's quick, nimble fingers are tugging Brenda's sweater and then her tank-top over her head, are fiddling open the catch of her bra, but she huffs out, “And what's that?”

“Plan E.” Brenda pushes her onto the desk and climbs on top of her, kisses her hard and hot and thorough until both of them are panting for breath; grins sharp. “Whatever the hell we want.”

*

It's no real surprise, Brenda thinks later (days, weeks, months), that Plan E should have been the one to stick.


End file.
